


What's This About Me and a Broomstick?

by marginaliana



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Pre-Deathly Hallows, fest fic, fest: hpvalensmut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-08
Updated: 2006-03-08
Packaged: 2017-10-05 16:08:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginaliana/pseuds/marginaliana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the war, Ron and Harry find their place in the world together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's This About Me and a Broomstick?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ts_marked](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ts_marked).



> Beta by chaotic-vanity, obeetaybee, and rhiannondance.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Potter. You must understand. It isn't that you're untalented - quite the opposite, I'm sure - but we simply can't take such a risk."

Twenty-one year-old Harry Potter was, by this point, quite used to disappointment; he merely nodded, shoulders slumped with resignation.

"The security," Ludo Bagman continued, speaking almost to himself, "and of course who'd want to play against you?" He paused, then continued optimistically. "But I'm sure the Auror division would be delighted..." He hesitated again at Harry's rueful snort.

"Thank you, no, Mr. Bagman," said Harry, standing to leave, "I'm no longer interested in being an Auror. But I appreciate you taking the time to explain it all to me." His slightly sarcastic tone went completely unnoticed by Bagman, who was busily trying to ingratiate himself with the Boy-Who-Lived.

"Of _course_, my dear boy. I'm so glad you decided to drop by so we could have this little chat. And I'm sure you'll have such nice things to say about this year's picks."

_Condescending git,_ thought Harry as he pulled back from Bagman's handshake and hearty clap on the back. Leaving the Department of Magical Games and Sports into the cool autumn air, he shook his head to clear it of the encroaching bitterness. _Doesn't want the hassle of dealing with me, but doesn't want me mouthing off about it, either. Well, he needn't bother. Wanker._

Harry's decidedly uncharitable thoughts faded slightly as he Apparated to the flat he and Ron shared. Home, at least, was a place he was always welcome, which was a pleasant change from how he'd grown up. They'd only lived there a few months, after staying at the Burrow for a while, but his living style and Ron's matched well. Both of them were messy and relatively unconcerned by it, and while Harry sometimes cooked, more often than not Ron brought home fish and chips from Diagon Alley where he worked in the twins' store. On weekends, they listened to games on the wireless and played chess (Ron still won all the time, but Harry was getting better). Harry had especially wanted a rec room - he was determined to enjoy himself now that he was finally free to do so - and Ron had insisted on painting it Chudley Cannons orange. It was Harry's favorite room.

To relax, Harry installed himself on the sofa there and started building a house of cards with a deck from a game of Exploding Snap. He'd singed his eyebrows three times when Ron burst in excitedly.

"So, mate, what lucky team got you, eh? I reckon Bagman had to fight them off you." Harry looked up, startled, reminded by Ron's enthusiasm of why he'd been upset in the first place. "I hope it was the Cannons! You're just what they need," Ron continued, crossing the room, then stopped, noticing Harry's frown. "Oh no, Harry, what is it? You're not stuck playing for the Falcons, are you?"

Harry slowly shook his head and Ron paused, knowing it was more serious. He sat next to his friend. "What then?" Harry took a deep breath.

"I can't play at all."

"Wha?! What for? Is it," Ron gulped, resting his hand on Harry's shoulder, "is it your leg, mate? Is it still hurting you?" Harry shook his head quickly, knowing Ron worried about his injuries from the final battle.

"No, it's just that Bagman doesn't want to handle all the complications of the Boy-Who-Lived. Thinks it'll be too complicated."

"Bollocks," said Ron firmly, sitting back. "What's he on about?"

"You know, the whole security thing, plus the fact that I've only finished a few games, plus the publicity. And I think he's worried that betting would drop off - who'd bet against me? It wouldn't be politic."

"That's shite, Harry, and you know it."

"No, Ron, he's got a point. Oh, not about the betting, I know, but about the rest of it. Imagine the publicity nightmare - he'd never be able to let other seekers say they were better than me because he'd be afraid of upsetting people who think I'm some hero," sighed Harry. "And what if someone did decide to attack me in the middle of a game? A lot of people could get hurt."

"That could happen anywhere, Harry. You can't protect everyone."

"I know, I know. But I can't blame Bagman for not wanting it to be on his watch." Harry sighed again, his eyes dull. Ron leaned forward and wrapped his arm around Harry's shoulders, comfortingly. Harry swallowed as his stomach twitched unhappily. Flying was the only thing he really loved to do, and while he could fly in the pitch in the neighborhood park, it wasn't the same as the thrill of competition. He'd so hoped to play for the Cannons and make Ron proud.

"C'mon, let's do something, then," Ron said, grabbing Harry's hand and yanking him to his feet. "Ruddy old Bagman doesn't want you, he can shove off. You'll find something better to do anyway."

Harry felt his palm begin to sweat as he suddenly became hyper-aware of the calluses on Ron's fingers sliding against his own. He shook off the feeling and smiled, silently thanking his friend for drawing him out of his funk. Ron's eyes smiled back.

\-----

In the weeks that followed, Harry visited several Ministry departments, all of the shops in Diagon Alley, the Knight Bus, and Gringotts, looking for ways in which he could make himself useful. Few of them seemed to really want him, and those that did either seemed entirely uninteresting, or would require him to spend the next five years of his life studying. Stan Shunpike had been aghast at the idea of Harry driving the bus; the proprietors of Flourish and Blotts suggested he might make the customers too nervous; even the goblins, who Harry had worked so hard to ally with during the war, suggested tactfully that the title of "Boy-Who-Lived," while accurate, didn't carry as much weight as a Mastery in cursebreaking. He could have gone into Misuse of Muggle Artifacts, he supposed, but the idea truly horrified him. Still, if a few more months passed and he couldn't find anything, he promised himself he'd go ahead and work for Arthur. Anything would be better than how useless he felt now.

Meanwhile, he was beginning to envy Ron, who hated his job at the twins' shop and spent as much time as possible trying to perk Harry up by suggesting they play one-on-one Quidditch in the wizarding park. Harry appreciated Ron's solicitousness, of course, but he was even beginning to get tired of flying.

It didn't help that Hermione thought he was making a big deal over nothing. After their post-war vacation, she'd promptly been recruited as an Unspeakable and was hardly ever around. When the three of them did have the occasional lunch, it was obvious she was bursting with excitement about her job, but unable to share it, so they often sat in pained silence. At their last get-together, Harry had mentioned the trouble he was having finding something to do with himself. Hermione rolled her eyes and made a cryptic comment about how some things never changed. To keep Ron from losing his temper, Harry had changed the subject to the Holyhead Harpies' abysmal Keeper, and Hermione had left soon after.

Harry really wanted advice, but with most of the adults he trusted dead in the war, he simply had no one to go to. While Minerva was happy enough to allow him access to the castle, as Headmistress of a school and orphanage, she had no time to spare. It would be too awkward to talk to Arthur, given his reluctance to join the man's department, and Molly was right out.

Instead, he and Ron tossed ideas back and forth each evening, and Harry spent most of his days wandering Diagon Alley or visiting Hogwarts' library and filling himself up with wizarding literature.

\------

As if that confusion weren't enough, Ron was absolutely driving Harry mad. It wasn't irritation, precisely, but he couldn't put any other name to the feeling. Every time Ron bumped his arm genially to get his attention, or wheedled him into a game of chess, Harry's insides gave a painful twitch. Sometimes he found it difficult to keep himself from grabbing his best mate by the shoulders and shoving him down - Harry cut off that train of thought abruptly.

He shouldn't be taking his frustrations out on his friend, and besides, Ron would give as good as he got, if it came to a wrestle. For some reason, that wasn't particularly daunting. The thought of Molly Weasley's face if he blacked Ron's eye, though, certainly was. Harry couldn't imagine how he'd explain himself. "You see, ma'am, he just kept _touching_ me, and being so bloody considerate!" After she told him off for swearing, she'd have him sent to St. Mungo's.

Sighing, Harry resolved to stop brooding in his room and do something constructive with his Saturday. Downstairs, the living room was quiet.

"Ron?" he called, hoping he hadn't gone out.

"Out here, mate," came the reply from the yard. Harry followed the voice out to the shed full of Quidditch equipment. He peered around the door and stopped, shocked. Ron was, well, polishing his broom.

He was seated on one of the rough wooden benches they'd slapped together for this purpose. Though the weather was cool, the shed had several temperature controlling charms on it. Ron had shed his outer layers of clothing, leaving him clad in only a thin and tatty shirt and his trousers. Spread out on the bench beside him was the usual tools - tin of polish, twig clippers, etc.

Now that Harry was holding the door open, the late morning sunlight shone over his shoulder and lit up Ron's fiery hair. It created a halo of warm light around his intent face as he concentrated on the broom. _Oh,_ Harry thought incoherently. The redhead was in the preliminary stages of maintenance. He'd taken the soft rag and was sliding it up and down the broom-handle, checking for splinters or inconsistencies in the wood.

Harry swallowed as one of Ron's thick, calloused hands stroked slowly up and down the shaft while the other held the broom in place with a firm grip between his spread legs. He knew in a moment Ron would dip the rag into the slick polish and repeat the action, making sure the broom was well lubricated for flight. A drop of sweat rolled down Ron's neck over his collarbone almost into his shirt before the redhead, shifting, shrugged it off. He lifted his head to look at Harry, still motionless and now somewhat short of breath, in the doorway.

"What's going on, mate? You gonna stand there all day?"

But at the moment Ron's bright blue eyes reached his own, Harry squeaked and ran, letting the door of the shed slam behind him. Once back in the house, he paused only to grab a jumper before Apparating away.

\-----

Ten minutes later Harry found himself pacing along the edges of the park, trying to will down the erection that had sprung up at the sight of Ron's strong forearms flexing as he carefully wound the rag around the broom handle.

_No, no, NO,_ he silently ranted as he wore down the grass. He'd known he had an interest in men for a while now; the search for the Horcruxes had taken them to Greece and the numerous lithe, dark-skinned boys lying about on the beaches had caught his interest in a way that was impossible to deny. Thoughts of Ginny stirred those urges as well, so he refrained from saying anything to his friends.

But when they returned to Britain and he discovered she hadn't waited for him, he wasn't surprised to find himself only mildly heartbroken. Since then, there simply hadn't been any reason to bring it up - they'd been traveling in search of Horcruxes, then doing battle, then helping to settle the wizarding world. He'd had little interaction with anyone outside of Ron and Hermione, who had spent the first two years of the war dancing around each other in a completely obvious way, the next two years dating each other but fighting all the time, and the last year trying to get back to civil friendship.

Never in a million years had he thought he'd find himself lusting after either one of his friends. And yet here he was, running through thoughts of punching Ludo Bagman in the face to keep from imagining Ron's calloused hands running up his thighs, Ron's fiery hair spread out across a pillow...

_Damn!_ He thrust the idea from his mind. _Think of Ron beating the living daylights out of you if he finds out what you're thinking,_ he reminded himself wryly. _No, that's not fair. He'd probably be perfectly understanding and sympathetic and horrified, and then try to set me up with one of his brothers' friends. I think I'd prefer a beating._

Harry stopped short and buried his face in his hands with a noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob, then tensed as the characteristic noise of Apparition echoed through the park. He dropped his hands and pulled himself together, not looking up until he knew he had himself under control.

Ron was striding across the park, a worried frown on his face.

"Are you all right?" he asked breathlessly as soon as he was close enough to be heard. Harry swallowed his throat tight at the concern on his friend's face.

"Fine," he coughed, and then cleared his throat. "I'm fine," he continued, more forcefully.

"Why'd you go tearing out, then?" Ron looked penetratingly at him. "I was worried."

"I-" Harry hesitated. "It's-" After all they'd been through, he couldn't lie to Ron. "Can you just let it go, please? I really don't want to talk about it." Ron nodded in acceptance, though he was obviously far from placated.

"I'm sorry I ran out like that, mate," Harry continued, and the redhead seemed to accept his apology. "Can we-you want to have a fly?" Ron's intense gaze didn't waver and Harry flushed. Slowly Ron nodded again.

"All right. But I was in the middle of polishing my Cleansweep," Harry fought to keep the flush from returning to his face, "so we'll have to summon some of the older ones," Ron continued. "I don't fancy my old Twigger against your Firebolt."

"You can use the Twigger and I'll use the Shooting Star, how's that?"

As Ron summoned the brooms, Harry tried to unobtrusively take a series of deep, calming breaths. As Ron turned back and they waited for the brooms to arrive, Harry had the distinct feeling that his friend wasn't fooled one bit.

\-----

After a few hours in the air Harry was feeling decidedly calmer and less frightened of his reaction to his best friend. All the time they'd spent playing one-on-one in the past few weeks had honed his ability to focus on flying and on attempting to come up with wilder and wilder maneuvers for Ron to block.

"I think I'm done in," he called to Ron as the redhead blocked the most recent of his pathetic attempts at scoring. Together they flew down and landed on the edge of the pitch, only to be accosted by two enthusiastic older men who were clearly related. They were both short and stocky with very short hair, almost like a Muggle buzz-cut.

"We've been watching you-"

"For an hour-"

"Or so."

Harry was strongly reminded of Fred and George by this point, but he remained wary.

"Maybe we should-"

"Introduce ourselves."

"We are Merwyn-"

"And Parkin-"

"Wadcock. You may know-"

"Of our sister, Joscelind - she plays-"

"For Puddlemere."

Now Harry was starting to get a headache. After more of the confusing conversation, it became clear the two brothers were (unsurprisingly) twins who also happened to be Quidditch scouts for the Ministry. They had just happened to be in the area, and (more to the point) that they wanted Ron to try out for the next round of Quidditch picks.

"You're quite good as well, Mr. Potter-"

"But really, Mr. Weasley-"

"Is one of the most outstanding Keepers-"

"We've seen in a long time."

"Would you be interested?" This last was directed to Ron's astonished face.

Harry forcefully pushed down his hurt feelings and put on a huge smile just as his friend looked hesitantly towards him.

"Well, I don't kn-" Ron began, obviously afraid of Harry's disapproval.

"Of course he's interested!" interrupted Harry. "Just say where and when." He gave Ron a quelling look and accepted the brothers' business card on which they quickly scrawled the information about the tryouts. As the shorter men, still enthusiastically finishing each other's sentences, made for the other end of the pitch, Ron grabbed Harry by the arm and pulled him under the stands.

"What are you thinking?" he hissed. "I'd never work for Bagman after what he did to you!" Harry felt warmth spread through his body at the reminder of his friend's loyalty, but pushed onward.

"Are you kidding? You love playing Quidditch! You've always wanted to play professionally. Don't you dare hold yourself back because of me!" Ron turned away, his face conflicted. Harry rested his hand on his friend's shoulder comfortingly.

"Come on. Let's go home and shower and have something to eat, and we can talk about this later. I'm sweaty and tired and you know you don't think straight when you're hungry." After a moment Ron nodded, and they Apparated away.

\-----

Back at the house, Ron silently dropped off his equipment and headed immediately upstairs. Shrugging, Harry followed suit, setting the old Shooting Star in its cradle and casting a quick _Scourgify_ on his protective gear before ending up in the downstairs shower.

Moments later, standing under the hot, pounding spray, Harry allowed himself a few moments of intense self-pity. He sobbed his feelings of hurt, disappointment, and worthlessness silently against the tiles. As his emotions wound down, he swiped at the wetness on his face, then laughed wryly at the absurdity of the action. Firming his chin, he reached down into the well of determination that he'd needed during the war.

_I won't let Ron throw away this opportunity just because I'm being a selfish git,_ he thought. _I'm going to go out there and be the supportive friend he needs._

The decision made, Harry straightened his spine and continued washing with steely resolve. He scrubbed the cloth down his arms almost cheerfully, feeling satisfied and purposeful for the first time in weeks. He would make Ron practice more often so as to be fully prepared for the tryouts. He would bolster his friend's self-confidence. He would be there, offering encouragement as Ron went out onto the pitch and congratulations when he returned, triumphant and sure of his place in the league. He would argue only half-heartedly against Ron's insistence on choosing the Cannons over all the other teams that would surely be lining up to take him on.

An image of Ron's ecstatic, grinning face came into his mind and Harry smiled involuntarily. _Ron's beautiful when he smiles,_ he thought, then stopped washing his leg in horror. Beautiful. He'd distinctly thought "beautiful." Not "sexy" or "hot" or "fills the viewer with delicious but inexplicable lust." No, it was definitely "beautiful."

_Damn,_ he realized, suds running down his stunned face. _I've gone and fallen in love with him._

\-----

Once he'd rinsed the conditioner from his eyes and they'd stopped stinging so much, Harry shoved the realization into the dark corner of his mind where he kept the things he didn't allow himself to think about. _Ron is my best mate,_ he firmly told himself, _and nothing more. I promised I'd be the best friend I could be, and that doesn't include uncomfortable come-ons._

He dried himself off and left the bathroom. Ron was sitting in front of the fire, staring moodily at the flames, and as the light flickered across his pale skin, Harry had to shove his feelings down rather forcefully once more. He gripped his determination tightly and moved into the room.

"Leftover Chinese all right, mate?" Ron nodded, not looking up, and Harry lazily Accio'd the boxes from the fridge as he settled on the sofa. They ate in silence for a while before Harry decided to broach the unspoken topic.

"So we'll need to find you a better Chaser to practice with. I mean, I'm good, but not as good as Ginny or-"

Ron cut him off, finally turning away from the fire. "Harry, I can't do this."

"Of course you bloody well can." Harry decided his best bet was to obliterate all of Ron's other objections before tackling the one that was obviously foremost in his friend's mind. "You're a great Keeper; you make the most amazing saves I've ever seen. Just because Bagman's a git doesn't mean they all are. They know a good thing when they see it. And you've always wanted to play professionally."

"It isn't that, Harry, and you know it." Ron's face was red and Harry wasn't sure if it was from embarrassment or frustration or a bit of both.

"What is it then?" he asked, challengingly.

"It's YOU, Harry!" Ron was definitely frustrated now. "I couldn't... I don't think I could..." All the fight seemed to go out of him and he continued so quietly Harry had to strain to hear it. "I don't think I could come home every day and see you jealous and hurt. You're my best mate and I owe you everything. I can't..." he hesitated again. "This isn't going to be any fun for me because you're not going to be having fun, and I'm going to feel guilty."

Harry had known, really, that this was how Ron felt, but hearing it flat out sent warmth worming through his body. But he knew the idea had to be dealt with right then or Ron would always have some doubts.

"Bollocks," he said cheerfully, and enjoyed Ron's startled twitch. "I'm angry at Bagman, yes, and I'm frustrated, but that doesn't mean I can't be happy for you. And how do you think I'd feel, seeing you come home day after day from working with the twins and being miserable and wishing you'd taken the chance? I'd feel pretty bloody guilty myself, I'll tell you." Ron's mouth dropped open.

"I... I hadn't thought of it that way."

"'Course not, you thick bastard," said Harry fondly, and they exchanged grins. Ron straightened his back and began to un-furrow his eyebrows. Harry relaxed infinitesimally - once he'd got Ron headed in the right direction, mentally, the rest was cake. He began to entertain visions of his friend being carried on the shoulders of a cheering mass of Cannons fans.

"When'd you get so good at thinking about feelings, anyway?" Ron's pointed comment brought Harry out of his self-satisfied reverie and pulled at the thoughts he'd been trying to suppress all evening. He shook his head vehemently, surprising both Ron and himself.

"I'm not, really." He sighed, then seeing Ron's look of concern, brushed off the statement. "Nah, mate, I just know you too well." He laughed, and it was only a little bit strained. Ron seemed to accept that and just nodded. Harry quickly changed the subject. "So who should we get to help you train? I bet Ginny would be willing." Ron objected to being put through his paces by his little sister, and suggested contacting some of the other former members of the Gryffindor team. The discussion continued into the night.

\-----

As Harry said goodnight to his friend and closed the door of his bedroom behind him, he tried to force the chaos in his mind into some sort of order. He felt like he'd been hit with twenty-seven bludgers, emotionally, and he couldn't help but come back, again and again, to the most important of the discoveries he'd made. He was in love with Ron.

And perhaps he had been for a long time, simply without realizing it. The things he'd loved about Ginny were the same things he liked most about Ron - the beautiful red hair, the fiery temper, the sense of stubborn loyalty, the love for Quidditch, the way each of them made him laugh.

When they returned from Greece to find Ginny involved with Neville, Harry had been upset, true, but his hurt feelings had lasted only a few weeks before mellowing into a sort of tame grumpiness that she hadn't even written him about the turn of events. And that had been during one of Ron and Hermione's more extravagant fights, so he'd been occupied with making peace between them and secretly wishing they'd just break up so things could go back to a peaceful friendship. Had that wish been evidence of his love for Ron even then? He removed his clothes and folded them over the back of a chair.

It hadn't been lust, though, that far back. He definitely would have remembered checking out his friend's... broomstick. Even in his current mental turmoil, Harry couldn't help snickering at the euphemism, which progressed to full-blown giggles as he considered the circumstances. He flopped backwards onto the bed, still laughing at the absurdity. Harry pictured the shocked look that would surely appear on Ron's face if he ever found out about Harry's "interest" in broomsticks and the laughter continued to bubble from his throat.

The image changed, though, morphing before his eyes into Ron's mischievous grin as the redhead grabbed a broom and deliberately imitated his movements of that morning, obviously intending to give Harry a sultry, teasing, show. The Ron of his imagination slowly removed his clothes, spending an inordinate amount of time sliding his fingers over the leather straps holding his gear in place. Once he was naked, Ron reached for a smooth, well-maintained broomstick, sliding his hands up and down the shaft. Harry groaned, then sat up.

Was he really going to do this? Let himself think of Ron this way? With all the blood in his body rushing to his cock it was hard to think about the situation rationally. _What would it hurt,_ he asked himself, _to indulge these desires in private, so long as I can act normal in front of Ron? Maybe it'll help me get this out of my system._ Ignoring the small voice that told him he was only kidding himself, Harry reached for his wand and cast a silencing spell on the room. He settled himself more comfortably on the bed and let the image come back into his mind. _Where was I?_

Ron was naked and giving Harry that intense, amused look. Right. They were in the shed again, and the light was illuminating the thin sheen of sweat on Ron's stomach. A line of fuzzy red hair trailed down Ron's belly to the triangle between his thighs. Harry ran his fingers across his own chest as he continued imagining the scene. Ron wouldn't let Harry touch him, was set on giving him a show. Ron set his hands on his shoulders so that his elbows stuck out, bracing the backs of his thighs against the bench. He slowly slid his palms down over his collarbone, drawing attention to his bobbing Adam's apple, then further down, scraping his thumbs lightly over his two pinkish nipples. Harry copied the motion as he lay against the sheets, arching with pleasure as he teased the sensitive nubs.

Ron teased himself a bit longer, fingers sliding over his freckled chest lightly at first, then with more and more force. Harry did the same, until he was panting with the pleasure brought by the rough scrape of nails against his nipples. In his mind, Ron laughed, a long, low, sensual chuckle that made Harry even harder than he'd thought he could be. Ron braced himself again and slid his hands down over his hipbones, past his thick, hard cock and over the soft skin of his thighs. Harry swallowed helplessly and felt his face heat at the shamelessness of his imagination. He slicked his hand with spit and wrapped it around himself, stroking slowly as he continued the fantasy.

The muscles of Ron's upper arms flexed as he ran his fingertips over the sensitive skin of his hips, down between his legs to the nest of hair at the base of his cock. He stroked himself with the same intensity and focus he'd used that morning to polish the broom, and Harry was almost frightened by the strength of his reaction to it. He cupped his balls with his left hand to keep from coming immediately. A moment later, however, Harry's imagination changed course, and Ron looked up with a lidded gaze, meeting Harry's eyes. His mouth - _that delicious, delectable mouth,_ thought Harry - quirked up in a smug smile, and he reached for the broom again.

He settled himself on the bench and pulled the broom between his legs, nestling it just to the left of his cock. Gripping both shafts in his hand, he began to rock slowly, pushing against the broomstick just slightly. Harry could see that it was just enough pressure to simulate the feel of two cocks rubbing together but not enough to get past the layer of polish down to the (no doubt) too-rough wood beneath. Harry caught his breath as he thought about what it would feel like to rub against Ron just like that, to replace the broomstick with his own, rock hard cock. He gripped himself more firmly, pushing against the ring of his fingers with a painful urgency. When the Ron of his imagination shifted and slipped the head of the broomstick down between the cheeks of his arse, throwing his head back with terrible, naughty, fabulous pleasure, Harry could take no more, and came explosively, gasping as his whole body arched up off the bed.

\-----

The next morning, Harry carefully put away the thoughts of naked Ron that had been foremost in his mind upon awakening. He fried up a big breakfast and pondered possible activities for the day. He needed to figure out a training schedule for Ron, which meant first contacting various Chasers - they'd ultimately decided to ask Ginny (against Ron's objections), Angelina, and Alicia. They also needed - Harry blushed, thinking of it - to finish the broom maintenance Ron had started the day before. Harry mentally kicked himself for drawing his friend away in the middle of polishing. That could ruin a broom.

_Speaking of brooms,_ Harry thought, _we need to get a new one for Ron. That old Cleansweep just won't do._ But what to get? And how to keep him from objecting? Harry remembered well Ron's touchiness about money. The thoughts swirled around in his brain: Ron's jealousy about Harry's money and Harry's jealousy about Ron's abundance of love, the importance of the broomstick in Harry's realization about his feelings.

The broom obviously needed to be top-of-the line, but so many of them had obvious faults. Even the Firebolt was marketed as a racing broom - it was more for Seekers than the other Quidditch positions. He wondered if there was a way to modify one for what a Keeper needed - perhaps making it less sensitive since the Keeper often reacted involuntarily to feints. He could think of a few other possible modifications. Suddenly, the broom seemed to take on a symbolic value in Harry's mind - he needed to get Ron something that was perfect for him, something that was as unique as Ron himself, something that would show how well he knew his friend.

Hadn't he just resolved not to reveal his feelings? Harry's little voice of dissent prodded him, but the thought was almost immediately overridden by the warm glow of having a purpose, of having a task to get him through the next few weeks until the tryouts (an enjoyable task, moreover - broomstick models were fascinating). He finished his breakfast and left the rest with a warming charm for Ron.

He scribbled a quick note - "Gone to see if Angelina and Alicia are willing to help, and some other stuff. Finish your maintenance - that Cleansweep isn't getting any younger. Pizza okay for dinner? Send Hedwig if you've got a better idea" - and left it on the kitchen table before stepping into the floo and calling out "Diagon Alley!"

\-----

Quality Quidditch Supplies was one of Harry's favorite places. There was often something amazing and rare in the window - a full set of Chudley Cannons robes, with the gloves autographed by that year's players, or the hottest newly-released broom. Inside there were shelves of regulation equipment; a section full of books, the kind Harry might actually want to read; even miniature Quidditch games used by captains to help design plays. Best of all were the walls filled with brooms. Some of them weren't made for Quidditch, of course; there was a rack of Bluebottles, which were the most popular, and a few Greylags as well. But mostly there were racing and sport brooms of varying lengths and sizes and weights, and Harry never tired of examining them.

It was a quiet day in the shop, and as he entered, he spied the owner behind the counter directing his assistants to stock the shelves. The tall, thin man looked up at his approach, then smiled.

"Morning, Mr. Potter!"

"Morning, Mr. Horton!" Harry was on good terms with Antony Horton since he and Ron had spent many of their Hogsmeade weekends exploring the store, and then, during the war, had used the place as a safehouse. He stepped up to the counter and leaned over conspiratorially.

"Can I ask you a favor?"

An hour later, Harry was stepping into a workshop down one of Diagon Alley's side streets. The proprietor of Quality Quidditch Supplies was descended from Basil Horton, one of the inventors of the Horton-Keitch Braking Charm, who had also helped to start the Comet Trading Company. His older brother, Jules, ran the production line for the company, and while nothing they had on the market was as good as the Firebolt, Harry had high hopes for a special modification of the Comet 300, the most recent model and the one closest to what Ron needed.

After discussing what Harry wanted and agreeing on a price, the elder Horton showed Harry around the workshop. It was Sunday, so the place was empty but for the two of them and Harry wished he could have come at a time when the makers would be at work.

"Primarily, of course, this is just a useable workspace for my artisans," he clarified. "Making a broom is an art, not some sort of production line. That only leads to inferior product." Harry tried not to show his surprise at the man's familiarity with Muggle methods. "First," Horton continued, "we put the brooms together, choosing only the finest materials. I have a special staff who run our supply farm, growing only the finest magical trees. Mostly birch, you know - that's the latest thing. But we experiment as well."

As they continued through the workshop, Horton pointed out to Harry the different tools and processes used in broomcrafting. The younger man was first surprised, then intrigued by the variety, and began asking a series of increasingly more complex questions about the process. There were tools for crafting the physical shape of the handle and twigs, potions which infused themselves into the wood for a variety of reasons, stations where brooms could be suspended to check the uniformity of the charms cast upon them, and more.

"Some of the work is done by apprentices, but mostly each broom is created from start to finish by an individual maker." Harry was awed once again at the work that must go into each broom.

_I wonder if I could learn how to do this,_ he thought idly, then paused as the thought poked itself forward more forcefully. _Hey, I probably COULD learn how to do this. I think._

"How long does it take to train someone, you know, to make brooms?"

At the sudden perk up in Harry's voice, Horton gave him a speculative look, clearly understanding the point behind the question. "It depends on the person. How much spellcrafting background do you have?"

"Some. Okay, not much," Harry admitted, a little downcast.

"Knowing of your talents," Horton commented dryly, and Harry grimaced at the reference to his hero status, "and your determination, and what you've shown me about your knowledge of broom specs this morning, I'd say you could be a passable broomsmith in five years or so, if you worked hard and stayed with it, and perhaps a Master three years after that. Spellcrafting is more useful in the later stages of learning, so you would have time to shore up your background." Harry found himself only mildly concerned by the longer time frame. It took time to learn how to do things right, he knew, and a broom was worth the effort. Moreover, Horton had spoken of apprentices, not years of boring school, even with the need to study spellcrafting, one of the advanced subjects he'd missed because of the war. Broomsmithing would be hands-on work, the sort of thing for which Harry had found himself well-suited.

"Of course, there are Masters and there are _Masters_," Horton continued, looking at Harry with piercing eyes and speaking in a firm, measured tone. "Some people just seem to have the knack for it. I don't know you very well yet, Mr. Potter, so I can't say if you'd be one of those. But would you dedicate yourself to a profession like this? No glory or fame, just the satisfaction of knowing a job well done?" Harry mentally bristled at the reproof, but firmly held his offense in check.

"You don't know me very well, sir, that is true, and so you don't know that I have never wanted fame, or glory, or any of that stuff. I've only ever wanted to do something that I love and that would be worthwhile for itself, not because of my name." Despite the resolve, his voice had become fast and strident by the last few words.

Horton's piercing stare did not waver, and Harry held his gaze for a long moment, wondering if he had been too forceful, before the older man's eyebrows faintly raised themselves into his hairline.

"Indeed. I think I would be open to offering you a position here, Mr. Potter, provided that remains true. No maker's name is ever attached to a particular broom - all Comets come with the same guarantee of quality. We have been needing another apprentice for some time, and while there have been those who put themselves forward, none of them displayed the same enthusiasm as you have shown me here today."

Harry considered carefully, his eyes flicking around the workshop at the variety of intriguing instruments. He knew he hadn't been much for hard work back in school, what with Hermione always around to nag him and Ron into doing their homework. But on the other hand, he'd never shirked away from his duty to the wizarding world, and he'd been willing to do whatever it took to destroy the Horcruxes and Voldemort for good. Broomsmithing looked like it would be fun, he thought, and he hadn't anything better to do with his time, and maybe, just maybe, it would give him a chance to feel good about himself for a change. Good about himself for something he'd chosen.

_Potter, you utter pansy,_ he thought, amused. _Quit thinking about your feelings and say "yes" already._

"When can I start?"

\-----

Though he hadn't, of course, told Ron about why he was visiting the workshop, his friend was practically bouncing with excitement as Harry described the place.

"I can't believe you didn't wait to take me along!" he moaned, flopping over against the far arm of the sofa. Harry grinned.

"Well, you'll get your chance eventually. You see..." he paused for maximum effect. "They offered me a job!" Ron's mouth fell open. He sat in stunned silence for a long moment. Puzzled, Harry waved his hand in front of his friend's face a few times.

"Hello, Ron? You in there?" Ron closed his mouth, blushing, then opened it again.

"They offered you a job? Just like that?"

"Yeah, well, I think I made it pretty clear that I was interested. And Horton said he's wanted someone who really likes brooms, and that most people are just interested in making money."

Ron harrumphed at the thought of anyone being less-than-obsessed with Quidditch and all its delights. A grin spread over his face.

"Congrats, mate! I knew you'd find something better to do than bloody Misuse of Muggle Artifacts." They both laughed, and suddenly Harry found himself unable to tear his eyes away from the line of Ron's throat as he threw his head back. He stopped laughing. After a moment, Ron stopped too.

"Mate? What's wrong?" Harry looked down at his lap. Ron was so proud of him, such a good friend. How could he keep lying to a friend like that? But what would he do if he told the truth and Ron hated him? He realized Ron had been calling his name for several seconds.

"Harry? Harry!"

"Sorry. I just..." he trailed off.

"Look, whatever it is, mate, you can tell me." Ron held up a hand to stop Harry's protests. "I know something's eating at you, something from yesterday, and I wish you'd tell me. Whatever it is, it'll be okay. It's not the job, right, because now you've found something. Something cool, too."

Harry smiled despite himself but shook his head. He didn't think he was ready to talk about this.

"Something different than the Quidditch thing, too, because you were upset before that. What happened, Harry? You came in the shed and then you just went tearing out of there like you'd seen old Moldy-Warts himself!" Ron smacked his fisted hand down on the cushion of the sofa, then his voice turned from frustrated to pleading. "Why won't you tell me? Is it bad? Is it..."

But Harry could take it no longer. He hated seeing Ron so upset, especially when it was within his power to fix the problem. "No, no, no," he broke in. "It's not bad. It's just... It's just hard." He owed Ron the truth, despite all his vows of silence. "I need to tell you this. It's... Ron, I think I'm gay."

Ron's mouth fell open again. Harry hastened to reassure him. "That's a stupid thing to say. I _know_ I'm gay. It's not a joke. I've known for years now but I never mentioned it because... there was never any reason to say anything. There's never been anyone that I felt that way about."

Ron closed his mouth and nodded, as if the statement put together pieces in his mind that had been floating about, unattached. "Is that why it was so easy for you to get over Ginny?" he asked.

"I think so. I mean, we were in Greece, and I realized it, but I thought I still loved her. But then when we came home and she was with Neville and I was pissed, yeah, but mostly I was just happy for her."

Ron nodded again, his face pensive. "So why are you telling me this now?"

"Oh, god, Ron, I'm so sorry for not saying something earlier, I just thought it wasn't important because I never... there was never anyone..."

"Not 'why didn't you say something then?' - why did you say something now?"

"I... well, I..." his mouth went dry. Ron was turning those intense blue eyes on him and he found it hard to speak. He resolved the situation in classic Harry fashion. "Ithinki'minlovewithyou."

"What?"

_Ron's lips are really going to get chapped if his mouth keeps hanging open like that,_ Harry thought. Then, _oh, god, quit thinking about his lips. Quit STARING at his lips. Isn't this bad enough?!?_ He braced himself. "I think I'm in love with you." Once he'd worked up the nerve to say it, everything else came tumbling out. "I walked in and you just looked so beautiful and I realized the things I liked about Ginny are also the things I like about you and you've always been there for me and you were there with the broomstick and oh Merlin, please don't hate me."

Ron reached out one of his large hands and settled it on Harry's shoulder. "Whoa, mate, slow down." There was a moment of silence. "You're not just taking the piss?" Then, more sure, as Harry blinked away the moisture in his eyes. "You really mean it."

Harry nodded. "I do mean it. I think I've loved you for a long time and I only just realized it." He sighed and looked away, towards the darkening blue sky that could be seen through their windows. "I hope this won't change things between us. I don't want you to hate me."

"I could never hate you, Harry." Ron's voice was gentle. The hand on Harry's shoulder was lifted to his chin as the redhead drew their eyes together. "I love you."

Now Harry's mouth was the one to fall open. "What?!" Ron laughed and Harry couldn't wrench himself away. He could see Ron was serious. "Don't feel like you have to say that, mate," he forced himself to say. "You don't have to..." He was effectively silenced by Ron's thumb sliding across his lips.

"I've loved you for ages," the redhead continued meditatively, almost as if Harry hadn't spoken. "Hermione and I, we were never going anywhere, and she knew it and I knew it. We were both there because of you. After a while I just realized... she wanted to mother you. I," and here his voice took on a teasing note, "definitely did NOT want to be your mother. Or brother, though I told myself I'd take what I could get. You loved Ginny. And then, after Ginny, you didn't love anyone. You said you couldn't love anyone. I thought... it was too soon. That we'd have to get through the war and maybe you'd come back to loving people again, and then maybe I'd have my chance."

The thumb was still there, rough and warm and now slightly damp from Harry's breath. He met Ron's eyes for a long moment, then carefully, slowly, kissed it. Another moment, and both of Ron's hands slid down around his shoulders and up to bury themselves in Harry's unruly hair. They leaned forward at the same moment and their lips met in a tender kiss.

At first it was reassuring, sweet, comforting. Harry liked that. Then Ron twisted his lips just so, parting them slightly and taking the opportunity to slide the tip of his tongue across Harry's bottom lip. Harry felt all the blood in his body rush to his cock at the touch of that tongue and the room suddenly seemed a lot warmer. He opened his mouth slightly and met the next pass of Ron's tongue with a swipe of his own, and hardened further as Ron groaned, crushing their mouths together with fierce passion. They kissed for a long moment, tongues sliding sensually against each other, Ron's hands at the nape of Harry's neck and Harry's fingers gripping Ron's knees below them. Harry pulled back, pushing Ron's legs up onto the sofa and then settling himself down on top of his friend, their hips together.

"Okay?" he whispered tentatively.

"More than okay," said Ron shakily, then moaned again as Harry bent down for another deep, passionate kiss. Harry could feel Ron's hardness against his thigh and he knew that his own must be pressing against the redhead in the same way. He whimpered as he found himself wondering what Ron's cock would look like, even taste like. Ron pulled back, worried, but Harry just ground their hips together more forcefully.

"That's a good noise, Ron, I promise you." Ron laughed, that long, low chuckle that had featured so heavily in Harry's fantasies. He whimpered again, then lowered his head and ran a line of kisses down Ron's smooth, pale collarbone. Ron's head was thrown back into the cushions and Harry enjoyed the view briefly before continuing his journey, nibbling and licking and kissing down Ron's neck and across his broad, freckled shoulders.

He leaned back on his haunches, feeling the almost painful friction of his cock in his jeans moving against the juncture of Ron's thighs. He slid his hands from where they'd been resting on the couch, up to Ron's hips, holding steady for a long moment while they thrust against each other. Ron's hands came around to grip his arse and pull him even closer.

"Harry," said Ron, his voice hoarse. "Harry, yes, Harry."

"Ron," he echoed, just as intense. "Ron, Ron, Ron."

Harry slid his hands further up, lifting Ron's t-shirt and sliding his fingers across smooth sides, around and over Ron's taut and quivering stomach muscles. He held them there, feeling the hot flutter of desire in his belly and knowing Ron felt the same. Then further still, up to Ron's nipples, already taut peaks that strained against Harry's palms. He rolled one experimentally between his thumb and forefinger, enjoying the delicious and shameless noises issuing from Ron's throat. He thrust his hips forward again and then, growing impatient, moved to pull Ron's shirt off.

"Ngggh," said Ron, lifting his arms for better access, even as Harry became distracted by the trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of Ron's trousers. "Good idea. You, too."

Panting, Harry agreed, quickly pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it behind the sofa. Ron's calloused fingers quickly repeated Harry's nipple experiment, teasing and pinching until Harry was arching in pleasure.

"God, you're beautiful," said Ron, an awed expression on his face. Embarrassed, Harry turned the tables, sliding further down to resume his oral assault on Ron's chest. He flicked his tongue over Ron's left nipple, his hands settling at Ron's hips. Ron's hands slipped into Harry's wild mop once more, grasping and flexing as he writhed under Harry's tongue. Harry licked his way down, leaving warm, wet trails of kisses over Ron's pale, smooth belly. As he approached the waistband of Ron's trousers, he paused, suddenly unsure.

"I want..." he hesitated. Ron stroked his hair reassuringly. "I want to see you. Touch you. Can I...?" His meaning was understood. With large eyes, Ron nodded. They quickly stood, shaky hands quickly removing their respective trousers and boxers. Harry swallowed hard. He'd seen Ron naked before, sure, in the showers and so on, but seeing someone naked was different when you were in love with them, that was for sure, and he hoped he didn't measure up too badly. Ron, of course, was lovely - all pale skin with a dusting of freckles that Harry couldn't take his eyes off, and that sexy dusting of hair, and those rosy nipples, and Merlin, Harry was harder than he he'd ever been.

And the most amazing thing of all, Ron's cock, just there, just for him, and Harry thought he might cry it was so beautiful. And hot, of course, because he wasn't a complete pansy.

And then Ron was pushing him back onto the sofa and pressing him down, electricity seeming to spark between them as their cocks came together. Suddenly, all thought left Harry's head and all he could think was "Merlin, yes, Ron, more, please" and he realized it was all spilling out of his mouth as they thrust together. He crushed his mouth to Ron's, lapping at his lips and tongue and feeling like every inch of his body was on fire. Ron was making those wild noises again, moans and breathy whines and Harry couldn't get enough.

He shifted his weight off to one side and reached down between them, adjusting, gripping their cocks together and marveling at the feel. Ron was like satin, all smooth skin but hot, gorgeously hot and hard underneath the softness. He wondered what it would be like to taste Ron, to take his cock in his mouth and lick and suck and oh, they definitely weren't going to get to that just yet because this was more than hot enough to bring him off, just the two of them grinding together and Ron's intense eyes looking into his soul.

And then Ron's hand was there, too, next to Harry's, and they thrust together into the ring of their hands and Harry came, riding a wave of pleasure unlike anything he'd felt before, and the little voice in the back of his mind told him it was okay to let go, because Ron was coming, too, his skinny hips shuddering in climax.

When Harry's brain could make complete sentences again, he realized they had nestled together on the sofa, his own messy black hair resting on Ron's shoulder, Ron's arm holding him tenderly.

"Wow," Harry said coherently, and felt his man-pillow giggle, then sigh.

"Wow is right," said Ron, a smile still in his voice that warmed Harry straight through.

Lying there, completely content, Harry knew he was finally happy.

"I love you," he said, pressing a kiss to Ron's shoulder.

"I love you, too." Ron's hand slowly caressed his back. "But, Harry..."

"Yeah?"

"What's this about me and a broomstick?"


End file.
